


We are all okay here

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [7]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a little disconcerting how long it’s taken Peter to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are all okay here

We are all okay here  
Neal/Peter  
PG  
WC: 500

A/N: Couldn’t bear the angst of that last one, so here: [Part seven. GOD.](http://fatale.livejournal.com/tag/this%20complicated%20thing%20we%20have)

Also - somebody prompted me with gloves, but damn if I remember who. REVEAL YOURSELF SO I CAN CREDIT YOU.

 

 

 

“Is this an OCD thing?” Peter asks, watching Neal wipe down the table-top and counter carefully.

“Ah, no,” Neal says, his hands stopping. A faint pink flush blossoms across his cheeks and neck. It is, Peter thinks, a ridiculously attractive look on him. “It’s, uh, a nervous habit.”

Peter stops at that, thinks. The counter is clean, was clean before Neal even came downstairs and Peter has seen him absently wiping down surfaces off in every room of the house, carefully navigating piles of crap littering various tables. “Are you -- you can’t be -- are you wiping your prints?”

“No,” Neal says unconvincingly.

It’s a little disconcerting how long it’s taken Peter to notice. To be fair, he’s had a lot of other, more confusing, bigger Neal-shaped issues on his mind -- Neal’s propensity for opening up all mail, regardless of whose name is on it, shredding documents at strange hours of the night, his inability to recognize that a locked door constitutes a need for privacy rather than an issued challenge. Stress cleaning hardly seemed worth mentioning.

Peter can hardly believe it even need to be said, but, “No one’s going to lift your prints from our house, Neal.”

“I know, I know. It’s just,” Neal says, carefully avoiding Peter’s eyes, “a habit, I don’t mean anything by it.”

He could press this, find out what it’s really about. But forcing answers out of Neal when he’s busy being avoidant seems not only pointless, but a little cruel, like pressing on a bruise and asking if it hurts.

“Yeah, okay,” Peter says, deciding to let the matter drop. Letting go of small things -- well, anyway. He opens the morning newspaper to give his hands something to do, distract Neal from the discomfort they’re skirting. “You could wear gloves, you know.”

“Inside?” Neal sounds surprised, but Peter knows he keeps eight pairs of gloves under the bed.

“Look -- if you want to avoid prints, is all I’m saying. I wouldn’t care. You could wear them. Gloves, I mean, if it makes you feel better.”

“Peter,” Neal says slowly. “Is this--is this a sex thing?”

“Not everything is a sex thing,” Peter says, far too quickly. It really isn’t, but now that the topic’s been broached, Peter can’t seem to let go of the image: Neal in leather gloves. Neal in a hat. Neal in gloves, a hat, and nothing else. It feels a little rude to be thinking lewd thoughts when Peter’s trying to navigate the twisty boundaries of Neal’s insecurities and poor socialization skills, but Peter’s a guy and his lizard-brain hijacked his body about four minutes ago.

“Because if it’s a sex thing, that’s cool, but gloves have patterns and they can be traced if you wear them to more than one job.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Peter says wryly. He puts down the paper and grabs a dishtowel. “I’ll help,” he offers. “Where do you want me to start?”

 

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
